KING OF LIARS
Tad Hicks, Windy Sam, and Kansas Jones, out of sight of the depot
platform, seized the little hobo's arms and dragged him willy-nilly
behind a saloon.
"Yuh promised yuh wouldn't drink up that cartwheel Mrs. Ransom guv
yuh," Tad Hicks reminded him.
"Aw, get out and leave me be," the hobo said truculently, with an
evident attempt at bravado.
"What's that?" Windy roared as he tightened his grip on the arm.
The hobo's truculence vanished, and he whined: "Nothin'--where we goin'
to eat?"
They led him to a Mexican eating house on Depot Street, where they were
joined by Toothpick. Having planked their charge in a chair and ordered
food, they settled back to have a little fun with the victim.
"What's yuhr name?" Windy Sam commenced.
"Jim Anson. What's yours?" the hobo asked.
"Windy Sam, now----"
The man called Jim Anson interrupted him.
"Is you called that because you talk too much, or because what you say
don't mean nothin'?" he asked innocently.
"Ha-ha!" the others exclaimed, and dug the red-faced Sam in the ribs.
One after the other they plied him with questions, but his answers
always left them floundering. He had a way of turning a thrust into a
boomerang. He did this with such a guileless, cringing air that they
were never sure whether he was secretly laughing at them or if his
answers were accidental. Before the meal was over he had them grinning
at his absurd tales. In spite of themselves they listened, absorbed,
and momentarily almost believed what he said.
"Rise up, liars, and salute yuhr king!" Toothpick shouted.
For a moment there was a change in the hobo's face. The fawning
expression was replaced by a broad, lovable grin that made the
punchers' hearts warm toward Jim Anson. Toothpick started. For a moment
he studied the hobo's face, saw the fawning smile there again, and
shook his head.
The five adjourned to Maria's Cantina, on the corner of Depot Street.
Jim Anson insisted that the first drink was on him and ordered it in a
loud voice. Another followed and another. Toothpick chuckled when he
saw that, while Jim Anson always ordered the drinks, one of the three
riders paid for them.
All the while Jim Anson asked them questions in such a way that they
never realized they were being pumped. He turned on Toothpick and
skillfully ferreted from him the story of the murder of the Courfay
family two weeks before.
"When we got there they was all dead, except one gent what says: 'Fees
do dible chable' which I figures is French." Toothpick rambled on with
his story, but Jim Anson was not listening.
"_Fils du Diable à Cheval_," he muttered to himself. "Sons of the Devil
on Horseback. Gosh!"
A little later "Mac" Kennedy, an Eastern dude, sauntered in. Jim Anson,
after studying him a minute, turned to the others.
"Who's that gazebo all dressed up like a Christmas tree?" he asked.
"He's a white-livered dude," Windy snorted contemptuously.
"He comes out here about three months back and says it's for his
health," Kansas elaborated. "Buys the Bar X, a little runt of a ranch
what backs up against the lava fields."
"He don't look yellow," Anson said meditatively.
"He is, though. Plumb yellow, from the neck down and feet up," Tad
Hicks hiccuped.
Ten minutes later Bill Anderson stepped into the _cantina_. He
hesitated for a moment when he saw the group at the table; then he
nodded to them.
"Boss in the back room?" he asked of Maria.
"_Si_, _si_, señor."
Anderson walked quickly to a door in the back, glancing over his
shoulder at the five at the table. Apparently they were too interested
in themselves to note his actions. Quietly he passed through and closed
the door after him.
Jim Anson insisted on buying one last drink here, despite his comrades'
urging to try the liquor elsewhere. Maria brought the drinks. Kennedy,
the dude laughed as he watched them. He leaned over the bar and
whispered something to Maria, then left the _cantina_.
The cow-punchers began to sing, and the woman came forward and ordered
them to leave.
"All right, we'll go," Jim Anson said with drunken dignity. He
staggered to his feet and swayed toward the rear door. He turned the
handle and kicked it open. It led to a storeroom.
"That's not the way, stupid." The woman gave him a violent shove after
the others. He grinned drunkenly at her and staggered out.
About ten that evening Bill Anderson swung in at Judge Ransom's gate
and knocked at the door. When he and the judge were comfortably
installed in easy-chairs before a fire, he looked squarely at Ransom.
"What are you going to do about the trial to-morrow?" he asked bluntly.
"My duty," the older man replied with equal bluntness.
"Judge, don't think I'm asking you to do anything else," Anderson added
quickly. "You know I'm not in politics for my health. When I came here
a couple of years ago, every one was at odds. The leaders of the party
were fighting among themselves. I'm not flattering myself when I say
that all stopped when I took hold. Judge, you understand that I'd soon
lose my leadership if I nominated men who were not elected."
The judge had hoped against hope that Bill Anderson would back him
because of his record, even if the Mexican vote was against him. He was
sure, if he could get the nomination, he would be re-elected. Now his
heart sank.
"Let's be frank, judge. If you insist on bearing down too heavily in
the trial to-morrow, you lose the Mexican vote, and, much as I want to,
judge, I don't see how I can propose you for renomination."
The judge pulled thoughtfully at his goatee. For the first time since
he had known Bill Anderson, he detected a certain sinister quality
beneath his bland air of good fellowship.
"But, Anderson, this Pete Cable isn't a Mexican," he said.
"That's not the question," Anderson replied. "For some reason the
Mexican vote is interested in him. Now, why not be sensible? Go easy at
the trial. Cable was drunk, he made a mistake and killed this
Easterner. Other men have killed in this town and gotten away with it.
Why not be reasonable? Remember, you are not being asked to do anything
dishonorable. All these people ask you to do is to sit quiet--to do
nothing."
"You ask me to do nothing--nothing but pervert justice," the judge said
quietly.
The political boss' good nature and blandness dropped away. A stranger
to the judge stood before him, with a face that was hard and cruel.
"This house is mortgaged, isn't it?" Anderson snapped.
This hit home, for the place was mortgaged to the hilt, and the notes
were due the following month. Ransom paled, but his eyes were steady as
he gazed into Anderson's granitelike brown ones.
"Is that a threat?" he asked.
"Only a reminder," Anderson said savagely. The next moment the judge
heard the front door slam, and he was alone.
Slowly he paced the floor. He and his wife had struggled for his
present position, for this home. What sacrifices she had made to allow
him to finish law school, and through the years of poverty that had
followed his graduation! Little by little, after that, came success,
until recently they had dreamed of the time when he would go to
Washington, a United States senator. All that rosy future had seemed
assured--until last month.
Now, not only the future, but the present, might be wiped out. Their
savings were wasted; his hope of reëlection crumbled; their home would
go next. All because of a murder trial with its mysterious
ramifications. There would be no college for Mary, no ease in old age
for his wife.
Rebellion and temptation seized him. What right had he to bring ruin on
his family? All he had to do was to let events take their course, as
Anderson had directed. His credit would be good once more; his dreams
of Washington might come true. Back and forth he walked and struggled
with the devils of temptation.
A door opened gently, and Snippets stood before him.
"Uncle," she said softly, "I heard. I couldn't help it."
"You heard?" he said, and his voice was harsh. "Then what shall I do?
Ruin my wife and child?"
"No. Make them proud of you," she said firmly.
The judge's face cleared, and he smiled. "Thank Heaven for you, my
child," he said. "You're right. That's the one thing I must do."
Anderson left the judge's house in a high rage, but the moment he was
in the open his anger gradually left him, and he was once more his
cool, calculating self.
"That's the first time I lost my temper in nine years," he told
himself. "Now what's to be done? First thing to-morrow I've got to see
the judge and apologize. I guess I better go and talk it over with my
dear brother. How pleased he would be if he knew I'd lost my temper!"
He laughed and strode briskly down Main Street toward the Red Queen.
Across from the Lone Star he saw Toothpick, Tad Hicks, Windy Sam, and
Jim Anson, staggering along, arm in arm. They had left Kansas asleep at
the Lone Star. Anderson waved at them; he was once more the politician.
"Come on, boys, I'll buy you a drink," he called.
They staggered after him into the Red Queen and lurched against the
bar. The place was filled with shouting, singing men. The back of the
long bar shone ornately with polished glasses, mirrors, colored
bottles, and other glittering paraphernalia.
Anderson ordered the drinks, and his four guests drank thirstily, with
profuse thanks. He nodded to them, told them he would see them later,
and pushed his way through the milling crowd toward the gambling room.
Unseen, Jim Anson slipped through the crowd in his wake.
The gambling room of the Red Queen was on the left of the dance hall.
Here Francisco Garcia, the owner, could be found on any night. The
Toad, as he was called by some, but always behind his back, acted as
lookout for a big game. He sat on a raised platform between the two
faro tables. He was so powerfully built that he looked squat despite
his height. Heavy jowls, thick lips, and protruding eyes relieved the
monotony of his full-moon face. His swarthiness hinted at Mexican
blood. Garcia himself never carried a visible weapon; he relied on his
two paid killers for protection--"Yuma Kid" and "Baldy" Flynn. And
because his enemies had a strange habit of disappearing or ending
violently, he was more feared than any other man along the border.
Bill Anderson, with Jim Anson, still unnoted, at his heels, sauntered
to the table and watched the play for a moment. Then he smiled to
Garcia.
"Having a big game?"
The Toad grunted.
"I wanted a word with you, but to-morrow will do." Anderson turned away.
Jim Anson, that ubiquitous hobo, flopped drunkenly at a near-by table.
From beneath his tattered hat brim he studied the gross Mexican and the
two killers who lounged against the wall behind him. "Gosh! The Devil
on Horseback," murmured Anson to himself. "And he had four sons! Horned
lizards. Rattlers. Coyotes, mixed up with tiger and Spanish bull."
He wandered out to the dance hall, staggering; yet, strangely enough,
when a bully struck at him, he seemed to float away to escape the blow.
His comrades at the bar were now noisy and riotous with drink.
"I'd sure like to see some of this money that's bein' bet that Pete
Cable won't get his neck stretched," Windy announced to the world.
"Yuh wanta see it? Take a look at this." A wad of bills dropped on the
bar. The three punchers swung about to stare at the money and at the
man with the high, cackling voice who had produced it.
They met the toothless leer of old Baldy Flynn. Behind Baldy lounged
the Yuma Kid, twenty-one-year-old, two-gun killer. The Kid's pale eyes
met theirs, and his two buck teeth shone in a menacing sneer. Most men
could easily whip the narrow-chested Yuma Kid in a hand-to-hand
encounter, but he did not fight that way; and he was feared along the
border.
Baldy and the Kid, Garcia's two hired slayers, were inseparable. They
were bound together by the bond of skill with a Colt and by their
unscrupulous cruelty, despite their varying characters. The Yuma Kid
seldom talked, never laughed, and never drank. He avoided quarrels,
save for profit. Baldy, on the contrary, loved his liquor, his own
jokes, and above all loved to quarrel with those who failed to laugh
with him.
Toothpick realized that he and Windy stood no chance against these two
killers; he knew their reputation. Yet the bar was crowded; people were
listening and were already commencing to shuffle to one side in the
hope of a fight.
"Yuh gents is talkin' loud. I'm bettin' yuh my roll that Pete don't get
his neck stretched," Baldy cackled.
Toothpick saw the menace in the killer's eyes, and it sobered him. He
tried to gather his scattered wits. He glanced at his friends and saw
that they were incapable of action. Tad Hicks, with drooping head,
clung to the rail of the bar. Toothpick knew that Baldy would push the
affair and try to force Windy to take water. This, no matter what the
consequences, Toothpick would not permit; certainly not, with that
crowd of spectators all watching and listening. Windy had been a fool;
Toothpick would have to use his wits to get him out of it. He chose his
words carefully.
"That roll of yallerbacks sure makes me hungry like a coyote, 'cause
it's three days to pay day," he said, grinning. Both he and Windy moved
to the left. If it came to gun play, their right hands would not be
hampered in the draw.
Baldy cackled derisively again. He turned to the hushed bystanders and
grinned. Out of the tail of his eye Toothpick saw Jim Anson squirm
through the crowd toward them.
Baldy spoke slowly and raised his voice: "Gents, I'm askin' yuh to step
up an'----"
_Boom!_ A Colt roared behind Toothpick. Like flashes of light, guns
leaped into the hands of Baldy and the Yuma Kid.
"What the hell?" snarled Baldy.
Toothpick swung about and saw Jim Anson looking foolishly at a smoking
Colt on the floor.
"Darn it!" the hobo wailed. "The durn thing was loaded."
He looked so foolish as he stared at the gun that the crowd rocked with
mirth, but Baldy spat like a wild cat.
"What did yuh expect, yuh bum?" he shrieked.
Tad Hicks had been aroused from his sleep by the shot and stared
stupidly at Jim Anson.
"When yuh guv it to me, yuh didn't say it was loaded," Anson stuttered
reproachfully.
Tad held out a wavering hand and picked up the gun.
"Kick that hobo out o' here," cried Baldy. Hands seized Jim Anson and
sent him spinning to the sidewalk.
Jim Anson disposed of, Baldy turned again to Toothpick and Windy; but
before he could speak, Bill Anderson shoved his way to the bar between
the killer and the two riders.
"It's right kind of you, Baldy," he remarked.
"Huh?" Baldy blinked with surprise. "What yuh mean?"
Bill Anderson looked at him blandly.
"Didn't you say, just as that fool hobo learned that guns are loaded:
'Gents, I'm askin' you to step up and name your poison'? There's your
money on the bar."
The crowd chuckled and moved a step closer to the bar. Anderson,
without waiting for a reply, called to the bartender:
"I'll take straight whisky for mine."
After one look into Anderson's eyes, Baldy grinned ingratiatingly.
Toothpick and Windy decided that discretion was the better part of
valor. Dragging Tad Hicks with them, they slipped out of the bar.
"Huh!" Windy complained, as the cool air refreshed him. "I was lit up
considerable, but now I'm plumb sober."
"Me, too. Baldy scared me sober," Toothpick agreed. "I'm goin' to buy
that hobo drinks aplenty, 'cause he sure stopped Baldy from hurtin' my
feelings."
"Sure did. But I'm tellin' yuh that Bill Anderson is some nervy hombre,
runnin' in on a sidewinder rattler like that toothless old ape. Folks
says he's a grafter, but I'll vote for a coyote, if he tells me to,
just because he made that Baldy draw in his horns," Windy confided.
Toothpick did not reply. He was puzzling out an answer to a riddle. Why
had Baldy backed down, when Anderson confronted him? He left Windy and
Tad Hicks at the Lone Star and then went to look for Jim Anson.
"That little runt sure saved my reputation, an' he can have half of my
bed, even if he is a dirty little tramp," he told himself.
He wandered about, searching bar after bar. At last he discovered the
hobo asleep in Maria's. Before him on the table stood a half-empty
bottle. Toothpick shook him awake. However, Anson refused to move until
they had finished the bottle. Toothpick was agreeable because he was
now stone sober. They had emptied the bottle when, to their surprise,
Anderson stepped out of the back room. His face clouded when he saw
them.
"Darned good of yuh, Mr. Anderson, to steer Baldy away to-night,"
Toothpick called.
Anderson smiled genially.
"That's nothing. Is that the little bum who just discovered guns are
loaded?" he asked.
Toothpick nodded.
"Who is he?"
"A hobo what got hisself thrown off the train this evenin'."
Anderson called good night and left. The moment he was gone Jim Anson
grasped Toothpick's arm and staggered out with him. To better support
the drunken hobo, Toothpick slipped a hand beneath his armpit. He
jerked the hand away suddenly.
"Say, who are you?" he demanded. "Yuh got a gun there in a shoulder
holster, and yuh made believe yuh didn't savvy guns."
The hobo dropped his stagger and stood erect.
"Where's my hosses, Toothpick?" he asked softly.
Toothpick jumped; the whine had left that voice, and he knew it now.
"Gosh! Jim-twin Allen!" he whispered.
Allen laughed.
"Huh! That's what Snippets meant by callin' me stupid," said Toothpick.
"Yuh sure got everybody fooled except her."
"Maybe so," Allen said indifferently. "I give the brakeman five bucks
to throw me off that train."
The two rode together out of town toward the lava fields.
"Why for did yuh watch Anderson at Maria's to-night?" asked Toothpick.
"'Cause I was plumb curious to savvy why Anderson went in that back
room and come out with straw on his boots. Is there a stable in that
block?"
"Yeh. They's one behind the Red Queen."
"Thought so," Allen grunted sleepily.